An Unexpected Abetter
by JulesPotter7
Summary: What if somebody stood up for Harry, just once. An unexpected abetter emerges at Number 4 Privet Drive. Pre-PS/SS


**Hello again to anyone who happens to be reading (hopefully a few)! This is the place where I hope to post any Harry Potter one-shots (my Percy Jackson ones will go in my other story currently titled** ** _The Sweatshirt_** **). I love Harry Potter with all my heart, and this story (thought short) is quite dear to it too it was on here for a little while but I decided to post it again with some much needed edits, so I hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Sadly.**

Harry stood alone on the dank, grey sidewalk outside Privet drive. The warm wind of summer blew through his clothes and they flapped around his thin frame. His glasses remained broken, his hair a ratty mess, but none of it mattered. He had a friend.

July 29th, 1988: 48 hours earlier

Harry had lived with the Dursley's for six miserable years. He was eight, or almost for that matter. The date marking his birthday and even more time spent with his so-called family, was two days away, but Harry couldn't help but hope. Hope for presents, hope for a cake, hope for _love_. But even at the ripe age of eight, he knew any of that would be too good to be true.

He thought a lot about what his life may have been like pre-green light. Would he have gotten magnificent presents, or eaten cake to his bursting point? That's how Harry liked to think of his life at least: pre-green light and post-green light. His aunt and uncle had told him that he lost his parents in a car crash when he was very young, while he survived with a peculiar scar on his head. Harry had come to this conclusion from many solitary hours in his cupboard as whenever Harry got in trouble for something he obviously did not do, he was sentenced to a few days in his own home, sorry, _hole_.

You see, when bad things happened on Privet, it was _always_ Harry's fault; whether it was raining on the Dursley's garage sale, or a freeze just after Aunt Petunia's tulips bloomed. Harry had nothing to do with any of these things of course, no one could. As they happened though, Harry was shoved into his cupboard time after time, resulting in time spent inside it, to be approximately half his short life.

There, he had come to decide that his life was split into these two parts. He could never remember anything about a car crash from that night, just that tricky green light, and he remembered quite a lot considering he was only a year old.

The Dursley's, along with being the least empathetic people Harry had ever laid eyes on, also had a son named Dudley, whose large bottom most definitely outweighed his tiny heart. He tended to act as though Harry was an inanimate object. Not as in he ignored Harry, that would have been a much better alternative, but rather that the object Harry personified was a particularly squishy punching bag.

Harry was neither squishy or a punching bag, but Dudley couldn't seem to work that out with his walnut sized brain.

Harry's mornings usually followed a particularly dull schedule; day in, day out. Aunt Petunia banging on his cupboard door in the wee hours, rolling out of bed (not literally, of course, he had no room for such luxuries), attempting to make his hair lie flat in the hall mirror to please his aunt, and helping to make breakfast for his relatives upstairs, who remained asleep most days for the better part of two hours.

This day was no different.

It was an especially hot day for this summer, which had been a strangely cool one. The temperatures were reaching close to thirty-five degrees celsius and Harry couldn't imagine being outside for any length of time. That is, until Aunt Petunia informed him of his chores for the day.

"Stop dallying you silly boy," Aunt Petunia snapped as she saw Harry attempting to fix his hair in the mirror, "We all know that's a pipe dream. I need you to water and weed the beds, rake up any dead leaves, and trim the grasses before noon, Darryl and Belinda Martin, from down the street, are stopping by for afternoon tea and I want our yard to be immaculate," she said sharp and pointedly without even an utterance of the p-word:

Please, of course.

Harry knew that "Darryl and Belinda Martin, from down the street," were the winners of Britain's best kept lawn three years running. Aunt Petunia has been aching to get her hands on that certificate ever since she heard that it existed; about three years ago when she first became acquainted with the Martins. So this was the reason Harry would probably get skin cancer, impressing the neighbors.

With a morning of back-breaking work ahead, Harry stole as much food as he could from the pantry as he prepared Uncle Vernon and Dudley's breakfast. A piece of bread here, a spoon of peanut butter there. It was probably all he was going to get on top of his meager portion of whatever it was Aunt Petunia (really it was Harry) was whipping up.

A quarter of an hour later, Dudley lumbered down the stairs. They creaked as he descended as if to warn him of the diabetes he was sure to procure. How an eight year old boy could become so large, was beyond Harry.

"Mummy, why do you make so much noise?! I was just having the most awesome dream about Captain Humberto! He rode in on his spaceship made of hamburgers and chips," Dudley scolded his mother, "What did you make me for breakfast." This was more of a command, rather than a question.

If this was the army, then Dudley was the drill sergeant.

"Eggs and bacon, sweetums," Aunt Petunia replied with much more sincerity than Dudley would ever deserve. He promptly squashed his bum into the wooden chair, which also creaked even more loudly than the stairs.

"Fry the bacon," Aunt Petunia ordered, Harry's name again seemed to have slipped her mind, along with the p-word (no surprise there). It's not like anything was new.

A hefty burn and twenty minutes later, Uncle Vernon tramped down the stairs, fully clothed.

"Oh Vernon, why are you dressed? You could get stains on your nice clothes," Aunt Petunia exclaimed. Meaning, what were you thinking, dressing yourself?

Aunt Petunia's need for control wasn't missed by Harry. He was smart for his age, even if his brain was overshadowed by Dudley's huge "personality". Even his teachers said so. He had brought home exemplary reports month after month just to have them thrown in the trash in Aunt Petunia's indignation that Dudley's reports did not match.

"His teachers simply don't understand him," Aunt Petunia complained, "He's being judged for his manly disposition! My Dudders can't help it if he's maturing faster than the other boys!" And it went on like so until the present and surely onward.

"I can always change, Petunia dear", Uncle Vernon finally mumbled after he had settled himself in the sagging armchair, reading through his newspaper.

"I'd much prefer the nice paisley shirt and the pants I pressed for you yesterday," she slyly suggested, this obviously an order. Not the suggestion it was masked to be.

"Fine, Petunia..." and with a great effort he pushed himself off the squashy void and stumbled back up stairs. Aunt Petunia's eyes gleamed in triumph. Her way or the highway.

Realizing the time: 8:20, Harry shoveled in his designated tiny breakfast. He knew Aunt Petunia had allowed the weeds to grow out of control, so that when she ordered Harry to pull them, the family would have a Harry-free morning or afternoon. Like a coupon for unHarryness.

Before he could scramble out of the kitchen and back into the hall, Dudley made the smallest sound of protest, and then to Harry's amazement, he spoke.

"Is Harry going to get more food?" There was a pause where it seemed like Dudley was going to say more Aunt Petunia interrupted.

"He doesn't _want_ any more Diddums, he has to work," she eyed Harry significantly. He took that as a dismissal.

"And either way, more for you", she added with a smile as Harry got up. That effectively shut Dudley up and signaled Harry's departure all in one. The perfect package.

After making a grab under his mattress he retrieved his "work-clothes", otherwise known as Clothes Dudley Has Damaged Irreparably. A quick dash to the bathroom to change as his room was too small for even such a small task, and he was ready.

The moment he walked out the door he felt a blast of heat scorch his skin which was currently protected by SPF 0. Ah, skin cancer.

The gardening tools were always stowed in the shed that was pressed against the fence line. As he opened the doors to the small boxy room, the temperature of his body probably rose a couple more degrees, if such a thing was possible. It was absolutely sweltering in the shed, and to top it all off, Harry noticed the beginnings of a wasp's nest in the upper right corner, directly under the tools that Harry needed. _Great_ , he thought, _a sunburn and stings. Just what the doctor ordered._

He clambered over the lawn mower, then the wheel barrow, and was almost to the table where his tools were lying in the sun, no doubt about to blister the soft dermis of Harry's skin, when he knocked the rake right into the wall below the nest. Harry thought he was done for. The nest may have seen small at the entrance, but now that he was within a few feet of the thing, he realized it was much too big for his own comfort. Especially now that he had most definitely disturbed the wasps lying in wait. Bracing for the stings to come, he scrunched up his eyes and tensed his body. He heard the faintest of a crackle and a tink, like metal on glass. Opening one eye to check his surroundings, he opened the other after he noticed the strange state of the nest.

It was frozen!

He couldn't believe it! Harry reached up and poked it. Sure enough, his finger came back damp and cold. He snatched up the tools, grabbed the rake, and made his way out of the shed as quickly and nimbly as he could. In heat like this, the wasps wouldn't stay frozen forever.

For the next two and a half hours, Harry pulled, plucked, raked, and sweat out every last drop he had. By now, he figured, even if the wasps did sting him, as he placed the tools back where they came from, he wouldn't have any tears to shed. Luckily, he managed to escape unscathed, the tools back in there proper places, outlined by layers of dust on the table.

As soon as he entered, a voice jabbed at his sweaty ears.

"In your cupboard boy, the Martins are coming in ten minutes and you're not to be seen in this state, or any state at all for that matter!" yelled Aunt Petunia, a request she often beseeched upon Harry, none of the company that visited the Dursley's knew he even existed. Dragging his feet along the hall, it dawned upon Harry that he still has his muddy shoes laced on. Brown scuff marks outlined the path Harry took into the hall. He groaned inwardly, he would pay for that later. It was best to pretend it hadn't happened for now. Maybe with a stroke of luck, she would blame it on Dudley. It would certainly be the best birthday present he'd ever gotten.

His birthday.

Out in the sweltering heat he had momentarily forgotten that the anniversary of his birth was in such close proximity. _Maybe this year,_ he thought. _I mean, you only turn eight once… Then again, you only turn every age once._ He sufficiently silenced himself with that thought.

Before shutting himself in the cupboard, Harry peeked quickly into the kitchen, something he did time to time to see what delicacies he would be missing out on this time. It seemed Aunt Petunia was baking a cake. _Cake._ Harry's heart skipped a beat. He almost broke into a smile, but then Dudley entered the kitchen for once apparently thinking of the same thing as Harry.

"Mummy, what's that cake for?"

"Well what do you think it's for Duddy?"

"Harry's Birthday? He's turning eight in two days you know."

Aunt Petunia balked. "For Harry? Of course it's not for Harry, Dudders, its for you! Don't you remember losing your seventh tooth tomorrow? It was a special moment for me, for sure, I'm surprised you didn't remember!" She glossed over Dudley's suggestion.

Harry hadn't thought he could feel more disappointed than he did now. His heart was touching the shaggy carpeted floor, and his feet dragged mud right over it. _Cheer up, Harry, were you really expecting a cake? You're more likely to turn Aunt Petunia into a giraffe..._ He guffawed at the mere thought of it.

One thing Harry did wonder though was how Harry knew his birthday and why Dudley even cared! He'd never shown any likeness towards Harry in all his years at Number 4 Privet Drive, why now? He had plenty of time to ponder it this next few days in the cupboard.

For the next hour, Harry sat in his cupboard listening to the polite back and forth between the families Dursley and Martin, each sizing up the other. Obviously the Martins had the upper-hand in Aunt Petunia's twisted mind, but she wouldn't let that stop her from "winning". They seemed like such nice people to be dragged through the ringer of Aunt Petunia's judgement.

That hour in though, Harry realized he had to use the bathroom, VERY badly. Rule number one of company at the Dursley's, don't come out unless the guests are gone. No buts, no exceptions. But this had to be an exception. Harry peeked out the cracks of his cupboard door. It was clear. Harry tiptoed out without a sound, he reached the bathroom and heard the conversation more clearly.

"...very good, now where is your bathroom dear?" the greying Mrs. Martin kindly inquired.

"Down the hall and to the right." Harry heard Aunt Petunia answer strained but ultimately polite. Belinda's light footfalls began getting closer and Harry tensed up for the second time today. She must have noticed the bathroom was occupied because he heard a light knock and a faint voice ask,

"Is that you in there, Dudley? Your mother told me you went down to your friends, I didn't hear you come in. I'll wait out here for you to finish up," Harry could almost hear the kindness in her voice. He barely had time to register that before panic seized him. A thought had suddenly gripped Harry, _she doesn't know about me._ This was not a surprise to him of course, but it did leave him in quite a pickle. He decided to exit with his head down, maybe she had never seen Dudley before. Maybe.

He opened the door with his eyes to the ground.

Harry heard Mrs. Martin gasp and he cringed inwardly,

"Why, you're not Dudley, who are you?!" the kindness had left her voice with such velocity Harry had only witnessed it in Uncle Vernon. "Petunia, PETUNIA!" she shouted with urgency, "There is a strange boy in your house! Come quickly!"

Harry tried to run to his cupboard, but the elderly lady grabbed his wrist with a surprisingly vice-like grip and didn't let go. When Aunt Petunia reached the hall, her face paled. She stuttered out an explanation,

"Oh, er, this is, er, our nephew, Harry. He's, er, a little wonky in the head, you see, er, doesn't do well with strangers," She finally spit out after much effort and conniving.

"He seems to be doing fine with me," she remarked coldly, "I don't know what it is you are doing here Petunia, but I don't want any part of it. Darryl? Dear? We are leaving." she ordered hastily. Casting one last look of disdain at Aunt Petunia and Harry, they were out the door in the blink of an eye.

This time, Harry braced himself for something he knew would come. Uncle Vernon came barreling into the hall, took one look at Harry, and began his tirade. It went on for a while, but Harry knew, from much experience, that Uncle Vernon would wear himself out and dole out the punishment only at the end. Until that time, Harry tried to think of other things. For one, he definitely was _not_ going to have a birthday. The day would pass like any other.

..."Cupboard for a week... no meals..." He finally breathed, glancing at the floor and back up at Harry. _The mud_ , he thought his stomach sinking. Uncle Vernon shot daggers at Harry but, in conclusion, seemed too winded from this generous round of beration to berate him any more.

Nope, no birthday. Harry shuffled to his cupboard feeling like the wind had been knocked out of him. _And to think the day started out okay... Dudley was so close to realising... well it's too late now, he thought._

July 30th, 1988: 24 hours earlier

The next day was spent in isolation and darkness. It seemed as though the Dursley's had found a way to turn off the electricity in the single bulb of Harry's room because when he reached to pull the cord the next morning, he found that a perfectly functioning bulb from yesterday was no longer operational.

During punishments such as these, Harry tended to drift in and out of a sleep-like state, only broken up when he risked a peek through the cracks to check if it was night or day. This only remained significant, because night was the only time when he could sneak food from the fridge.

These were the times when he thought about that fateful night so many years ago. Where he had come up with that image of green light and also that terrible laugh. It was what scared him more than anything in his dreams. That the laughter could become real, it could _be real_. To Harry, that laugh was the embodiment of evil, and after awhile, Harry concluded that whoever owned that laugh took away all his if's and all his maybe's.

 _If his_ parents had lived then _maybe_...

But, because he survived all that happened to him, most would call him lucky. Harry didn't agree. To him, neglect was the worst destiny of all. A fate worse than death, because maybe if he was dead, he might get some attention in the afterlife.

July 31th, 1988: The day of

Harry awoke early, or at least he thought so. He had no way to know the time. Assuming that it had passed in to morning, he managed a half-hearted chorus of "Happy Birthday" to himself. It just made him seem more pathetic in Harry's opinion.

It had been a few hours after his birthday soliloquy, that a familiar but unexpected bang sounded on his door.

He couldn't think why the Dursley's would go back on their punishment now, they never had before, especially at this hour, if his internal clock was correct.

Harry opened his door and took note it was still dark outside, his internal clock seemed to be doing well as of yet. Harry also took note that it was a pajama-clad Dudley that stood outside his cupboard, not Aunt Petunia.

He threw something heavy at Harry, pushed him back onto his bed, slammed the cupboard door, and ran upstairs, as quietly as Harry had ever heard. The first thing that occurred to him was that this was some practical joke pulled by Dudley to only worsen Harry's state.

There was no way to see what Dudley had thrown at him in his dark, lightbulb-less state, so he wished to the birthday gods for good luck and crept out his door, lumpy object in tow. He plopped himself down in the sitting room, lit by the light of the moon. The clock on the mantle read 4:23 in the morning. _At least it had been my birthday when I sang to myself,_ Harry thought. That sounded even more pathetic than when he had actually sung.

He pulled himself into a cross-legged position and pulled the object closer to himself. It was a plastic bag from the Hannam supermarket.

And it was full of _food._

Apples, bread (which was, admittedly, a little stale, but that was _so_ not the point), some raw carrots, water bottles, partly smashed hostess sweets still wrapped in plastic, a can of artichoke hearts (?), and a large box of peanuts and almonds.

Harry couldn't believe what he was seeing. Dudley must have had to raid the entire pantry to stock this bag… (Aunt Petunia didn't keep much in the house.)

What Harry couldn't understand though, was why? Dudley had never offered the slightest inclination of... _anything_ for Harry, except maybe the desire to clock him around the head. What changed? Why now? Suddenly, it seemed, that Dudley's heart may have been promoted to a status almost equal to his bottom.

It was not until Harry reached the bottom of the bag that he found a note written in the sloppy handwriting of an eight year old boy. It read:

 _Happy Birthday_

 **I truly hope you enjoyed this story, it is, as I said quite near and dear to my heart. I've always hoped Dudley had some humanity before he was indoctrinated by his mother and father. Tell me what I did well and what needs work in the reviews!**

 **Thanks again,**

 **-Jules**


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